it takes her breath away. yes, he says he loves her. but this means nothing.
it is, this thing that knocks her over like the holy spirit when it hits her brain, acceptance. acceptance beyond acceptance. love for what she is.
love for the thing that has been a problem for as long as she can remember. the thing that was sick, that slowed her down, when, as a child, she was not thinking of her appearance, but dreaming of swinging from the trees like a monkey in the rainforest. and when she first became heavy from the medication, and when she continued to medicate herself from food long after her body was the problem (the sickness moved from her lungs to her brain, strangling her from inside her sick soul).
her body.
he loved her body. did not tolerate. did not settle.
he loved her body with a radical acceptance she had never, even in her wildest, most narcissistic fantasy, imagined possible.
he was in the bathroom putting on a condom. she squeezed the plastic container of lube thick like petrolatum jelly. it came out cold with a loud, fecal squelch. she massaged it roughly into her vagina, a tight bitter mouth.
why could she not accept him in return?
